


HD Howler

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Hogwarts Era, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 13:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14426556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: OOC, IC—any C, pick one; completely crack; bulging with humour of the worst sort and the threat of holy matrimony. Also, a leetle wee bit of Crazy-Arse!Ginny and Wise!Ron.  And Poncy!Harry.To fulfill the charity vgift enchanted_jae* sent my way and to participate as best as I could in bleedforyou1’s  Comment Fest. Prompt below. Please heed stated manufacturer’s warnings: wash separately, hang dry.PROMPT Fest: Ginny is pissed off when Harry breaks up with her, claiming he's "into blokes now" and this causes her to send Harry a howler, which, embarrassingly goes off in front of Draco Malfoy-- who figures that if Potter is into blokes, then this may very well be his chance!





	HD Howler

It was the Breakfast O’ Doom. The Seventh Circle; an infinite Hell. Harry could only draw that learned conclusion when a random school owl dropped a brilliant red envelope in his scrambled eggs, right along with load of something else much less pleasant. Both items were were smoking ominously; Harry gave up on his eggs as a dead loss.  

HARRY POTTER!  

The envelope unfolded itself with a snap and a shriek, audible to a great part of the Great Hall. A great pink tongue lolled out and flibberigibbetted at Harry’s face, spattering his spec lenses with what he hoped vaguely was only magical saliva.  

HARRY POTTER, YOU ARE A FILTHY PONCING BASTARD! I HATE YOU! 

“Oh, man!” Dean winced on Harry’s behalf, just as a good mate should. Neville cringed, veering away sharply and causing a chain reaction of elbow bumping down the bench. “Ginny caught you? Filthy luck, Harry! You’re in for it now!”  

“What—who would?” Ron paused upon a swallow to ask innocently enough, staring; his ears had apparently been clogged by the act of rapid mastication. Ron considered it his bounden duty to feed the hump, especially as Hermione was unavailable to comment on caloric intake and the importance of green foods. “Huh? What’s it? What did’ja do now, Harry—and to whom?”  

HOW DARE?  

HOW DARE, the Howler repeated, jumping a raw squeaky octave in unadulterated rage, YOU BLABBER TO WITCH WEEKLY YOU’RE THAT WAY? WITHOUT TELLING ME FIRST??!! WE HAD AN AGREEMENT, HARRY-SKIVING-LYING-KEEP-IT-ALL-BOTTLED-UP-POTTER! ARSE BANDIT POTTY-FACED PRICK! TWO-FACED PIN-HEADED BERK-OF-AN-EX-BOYFRIEND! WHAT IF MUM SEES? 

“Is—is that Ginny’s handwriting? There—right there? Is it?” Ron whimpered, eyeing the scarlet paper flapping at Harry’s face with distinct trepidation—and a whole lot of Weasley curiousity. Harry noted in a rather addled fashion that his brave pal Ron didn’t dare glance down the table at his fire-breathing younger sister; his best mate wasn’t entirely clueless as to which way the wind blew. Not entirely. He was a teaspoon no longer, though Hermione would never believe it, Harry was sure. Ron was a fork now, at the very least. A bright, shiny fork. “Um. Ah,” Ron swallowed and gulped. “Er? Te-tell me it isn’t, Harry—p-ple-please? It's not from my sister?”  

WELL, GUESS WHAT, DUNCE? WHAT _NOW_ , PANSY POTTY?  

Glumly, Harry nodded. One little tiny error in judgment and his life—just barely back on track again—was left in pieces. Smoldering in the dust and actively being stomped on—well, at least the personal aspect of it was. Ginny was raving, gnashing livid. Clearly. 

He knew, of course, that she would be. Oh, well. That was the way the cookie crumbled—not that he’d much experience with cookies.  

Nookie, however. That he did have an intimate grasp of, these days. And when it came right down to the wire, nookie always trumped cookies. Fact.  

He nodded a little more expansively, buoyed by that fact. It was a good and positive fact, as facts go, much better to contemplate than previous, now expired facts, such as: ‘Voldemort’s going to kill me, dead’ and ‘I don’t seem to want to shag Ginny…anymore’.  

“Yes. Yes, it is. She’s, uh…it’s like this. Gin’s, erm, ah…a little upset with me. Right now. That is.” He pulled a face at his old friend, hoping Ron’s feeling of mately brotherhood would possibly weigh in more strongly than his sense of actual brotherhood…huh! Not likely. “Uh, yeah…it’s a long story. Really.”  

“Right, so what exactly did you do, Har—?”  

MUM SAW! 

Ron blinked furiously.  

MUM READ YOUR WHOLE INTERVIEW, HARRY. IN THE SODDING MAGAZINE, HARRY. AH- ** _HAH_**! 

Gin’s older brother peered at Harry. Flinching, shrinking, pale-as-whey Harry, who’d parted his white lips in a shocked little ‘O’ and presently sat stock still and dumb-struck, blinking extremely slowly and with all the signs of extreme shock evident.  

Ron sniffed disbelievingly. Turned up his nose and turned away.  

Shook his head sadly at his old friend, currently slouched boneless beside him, listing port-side.  Opened and closed his mouth three times in rapid succession and then crinkled his face into an expression of utter disgust—and disdain.  

For this was the end—the very bitter end—and Ron was appalled.  

“Huh,” he said, and took up an apple pastry to occupy himself with. “Hmm.”  

Intrigued by the resounding silence reverberating round the Great Room after the momentous words ‘MUM SAW!’, Harry turned his stiff neck just enough to glance carefully at his mate Ron…and shivered. He did realize he deserved a certain amount of mately disapprobation (if only for his terrible timing) but he still wasn’t required to like it.  

“Ron—“ he essayed, hoping the helpless, hopeless look might work for him. Better to use the pity card too early than too late, yeah? “Ron, it wasn’t really all my fault, you know?”  

“She found you out, didn’t she?” Ron demanded, gobsmacked that his mate Harry—Slytherin-thinking Harry—could’ve mucked up on this level. It was abominable; it was unconscionable—not to be thought of! He was shamed on Harry’s behalf, Ron was. It remained to tell him so; thusly Ron did just that: earnestly, grim as a badger and leaning so far over into Harry’s personal space he nearly knocked his faintly gibbering and apologetic pal to the floor.  

“She fucking well found out about it, Harry!” He bared his teeth, snapping them at Harry. “About Justin? And that Mike bloke from last summer, too, I bet! And you just sat back and allowed it? Oh, shit-on-a-stick, Harry! What an effin’ drag! What are you? Completely brain-dead? You know how Mum is, Harry!”  

“Well…”  

Harry slumped into an ever more unhappy heap than previously achieved and took up a stray piece of toast, if only to shred it. Across the way Draco Malfoy raised his brilliantly glossy head with military snap, peering over his personal issue of the dreaded WW, and proceeded to glare Harry’s way. The glare of a thousand burning suns, it was—no, worse than that. The glare of a man sorely disappointed.  

“I, um…” Harry wilted beneath the stare and glare, both.

 Ron raised a hand, palm flat against any folderol Harry might mistakenly pull out of his wizarding hat.  

“Don’t even bother,” he said flatly, troubled face averted. “I can’t bear it, mate. Please—just let me eat my meal in peace.”  

“Um, okay?”  

Harry was absolutely and finally convinced death really was preferable to Howlers received at breakfast time.  He was also firmly convinced tea was not proving the panacea Mum Weasley always claimed it was. And toast was no proper substitute for one Ginevra Weasley’s lily-white neck.  

He moaned, flapping his hands out sufficient to fling toast shreds in every direction.  

“Erm…maybe later, then? I’ll tell you—you’ll listen?”  

Seamus, next to him, ably ducked the bread shreds, being on the Quidditch team's reserve. Nev, however, gathered his breakfast things together in a grim sort of way and rose stiffly to his full height, only to shift his place down the bench by a good seven feet and the matter of five-odd Gryffs. He joined Draco in glaring at Harry from afar, though the force of his wounded gaze was as nothing to sodding inferno emanating from over at Slytherin table.  

“No.” Ron was adamant. “Shut it, Harry—really. Not till I’ve eaten.”  

Harry sighed. He could not win. He would not win; it was no use trying.  

DID YOU THINK THAT WAS ALL I HAD TO SAY TO YOU, HOTPANTS POTTY? NO LUCK THERE! 

The Howler, unlike Harry’s good old friend Ron, was by no means through.  

WELL! It howled, not a slouch when it came to the volume department. LET ME TELL YOU, IT ISN’T! NOT BY A LEAGUE OR A BLOODY MILE, YOU MISERABLE SKEEVING SACK OF SHIT! 

“That’s bad.” Ron ceased chewing long enough to remark. “When they go on and on like that—very bad, Harry. She must abhor you.”  

“Uh-huh. You’re telling me, Ron.”  

HARRY POTTER! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT BRUSHING THIS OFF! YOU LISTEN TO ME, YOU IDIOT TWIT OF A BUGGERING BOY! I’VE GOT MUM YAMMERING AT ME DAY & NIGHT NOW! WHAT IS THE GREAT HERO HARRY PLANNING ON DOING ABOUT THAT, I ASK? YOU WANKER! YOU SNEAKY WANKER! I HATE YOU! 

“Oh fuck, mate. That’s awful,” Ron winced, “even for a Howler.”  

“Yeah…yeah,” Harry swallowed, blushing. “It is, isn’t it?”  

DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT THEY CALLED YOU AT WITCH WEEKLY, HARRY POTTER? YOU’RE A— 

The Howler went on, listing any number of common-garden and pub-room terms for those particular men who appreciated other men as opposed to the women they were officially dating for cover: a whole litany of such terms, and really more than a naïve Harry had ever known existed.  

AND A— 

He did notice, too, out of the corner of his one wildly rolling eye, a very satisfied Weasley female, busy smiling and lording her nasty, bitchy triumph over her especial mates and smirking his way, now and again.  

She even stuck her tongue out at him. And wagged it, the ginger cunt.  

 _That_  was particularly maddening. He couldn’t even hex her! No hitting girls, damn it!  

…Besides all that, Molly Weasley really would skin him, should he strike her precious daughter, worse than she was likely set on already. 

MUM’S PLANNING TO SKIN YOU, HARRY POTTER! 

“Oh, there, now!” Harry groaned. “What did I just say? Bloody  _Hell_ , Ron! Can’t  _you_  control her!?”  

“What, mate?” Ron hadn’t been listening. “Hmm?” 

“Oh-er. Um, forget it,” Harry caught himself, for if Ron wasn’t quite au fait with all the details of Harry’s expose, that was all to the good. Apple carts should remain full of apples, yes. “Just, uh—just forget it, Ron.”

“…’Kay,” Ron nodded, busy with the Danishes and the little sticky buns the Hogwarts House elves prided themselves on. “Whatever.”  

Harry gritted his teeth silently.   _Whatever_ , indeed! Harry stewed.

The Howler, though inanimate, had apparently run out of breath—hopefully forever. But still it danced above the table, red tongue slavering.

Harry winced. And Ginny, down the table a ways, gloated.

“Oh—hrm?” Ron finally polished off whatever it was and had a soothing sip of tea. He swirled it meditatively over his gums, thinking aloud. “You meant  _my_  sister? She’s a right piece of work, isn’t she? Can barely keep her schooled, Harry—not even George can, nor Charlie, you know that? Bloody bane of my bleeding existence.”  

Harry loved her, true, but little sisters were the veriest bitch to manage. He was with Ron on that.  

“And Mum, Harry,” Ron shook his head in sympathy. “You’ve gone and set off  _Mum_. That’s just—that’s just  _awful_ , Harry. I mean,  _horrid_. Mate, you’re so much rubbish now. Tatters and rags, old man. I pity you, really I do.” 

I HOPE SHE DOES; I REALLY DO!   
  
The Howler was apparently very sharp of hearing—or perhaps it was that Weasleys tended to think somewhat alike. Harry winced reflexively, in any case.  He’d really been hoping it was one of the shorter ones, but no such luck, apparently.

IDIOT ARSE! BUM-SUCKING, SPINELESS, WRACKSPURT-INFESTED, CODHEADED, YELLOW-BELLIED EXCUSE FOR A HERO! I  **PITY**  YOUR POINTY ARSE, HARRY—I DO! AND, HARRY, DEAR—IT’S WORSE THAN THAT!

“Nnnn,” Harry opened his feeble fingers and dropped his second slice of crumbled toast on the floor. He pitied himself too, not like that was helpful. “It gets worse?”  

YOU’LL DESERVE IT, HARRY! 

“That was stupid, Harry,” Ron shook his head in faint commiseration. “Whatever it was you said to  _Witch Weekly_? Well, clearly you shouldn’t have, mate. You _know_  what she’s like.”  

“Mmm.”  

“And  _Mum_ , Harry. It’s  _Mum_. What an idiot. I’ve really no idea  _what_ you were thi—“  

 _WHAT_  WERE YOU  _THINKING_?  

“See? Neither does m’sister!” Ron laughed despairingly on Harry’s behalf and crunched his bacon in a sad, sober sort of manner, as though a funeral would commence, right after breakfast. Harry honestly appreciated the mournful gesture but even he knew the loyal support of his best friend was no match for what lay in wait to confront him  as soon as the meal had ended.  

…For Draco Malfoy, in the intervening interim of woeful betidings and limp-wristed, feeble comforting on Ron’s part, had never once ceased his glaring. In Harry’s direction—directly _at_  Harry, in fact.

 _In fact_ , the level had intensified, if anything. Malfoy seemed a burning brand of crystalline flame, rising white-hot above his cooling porridge and his women’s-only gossip rag, the love bites on his long delicious throat standing out in stark relief below his boiling mercury eyes.  

 _WERE_  YOU THINKING?  

He was beautiful, even for a man, and anger became him. Which was well besides the point, as an irate Draco was a dangerous Draco and Harry knew all about dangerous Dracos. Harry, after all, possessed the bollocks to sleep with one on a regular basis and if that didn’t require dumb, stupid, blind courage and Gryffindor daring, nothing did.  

And now there was his lovely mate Ginny’s Howler to contend with—the entire attention he’d garnered from the inmates of the Hall—Ron’s annoying pity  _and_  the looming spectre of a Molly Weasley, deprived of her expected son-in-law. Yet somehow still primed for a major social event.

This was not to be borne without collateral damage. Harry was aware he was shaking like a blancmange; like a veritable Firstie, frightened nigh unto death before a closet boggart in DADA.  

Give Harry Dementors; they’d be preferable. Really.

“Potter?” Malfoy’s question was a quiet one, refined and full of gentlemanly query. It carried across the intervening tables with assured grace, though. And a certain deadly serpentine elegance, as there was a hiss attached to Harry’s surname that was practically inconceivable, given the ‘p’s and the ‘t’s of ‘Potter’—yet it was so.  

“Potter?”  

Harry practically ripped his wildly rolling eyeballs straight out of their sockets and flung them away, all to avoid meeting that steely-eyed gaze. 

“Ngh!”  

“Oh, Pot-ter? Perhaps a word?”  

Harry shrank to yet a smaller overall stature, folding in and upon himself and meeping.

The squeaking earned him another pitying glance from dear old Ron, the fork.  

Perhaps it hadn’t been his most brilliant of ideas, providing the  _WW_  their candid interview…but then? What  _was_  he to do? Live a lie? Play along? Be a coward and a bloody nancyboy, just as Draco had accused him of not less than forty minutes previous?  

Because of course he really couldn’t. For Draco’s sake, if not his own. He was staunch; he was unyielding—more like, he’d effectively painted himself into this horribly uncomfy corner and now had to grin and bear it.  

…Well, wince and bear it. Duck very low indeed (almost crawling) and run away and then bear it. Elsewhere—and preferably from a safe distance. Or, er, um—simply hope to survive another day?  

…But not here. The Great Hall was no longer the welcoming, warm, fun-filled, food-laden place it had been when Harry stumbled in after his morning ablutions. Er, no.  _Not_.

“Po—“ Draco was really very insistent. At his flanks, the assorted loyal Slytherins hissed approval. " _Ahem_. Potter." 

WELL, THAT’S IT, HARRY-PONCING-POTTER-PANTS! SEE IF  ** _I_**  CARE IF YOU RUIN YOUR OWN DAMNED BEARD! SEE IF ** _I_**  CARE IF MUM KILLS YOU! YOU DESERVE EVERY SINGLE LITTLE LOUSY HORRID COMEUPPANCE YOU HAVE COMING TO YOU, HARRY! MUM’S ALREADY PLANNING TO ‘DROP BY AND VISIT WITH YOU’, YOU KNOW? YOU’RE SO SCREWED, HARRY, YOU’RE ALREADY SIX FEET UNDER, BOYO!  TA-TA!

“Oh, my gods, “ Harry whinged. “This _isn’t_  good. Ron! This. Is.  _Not._  Good!”  

“No, I’d say not.” Ron nodded agreeably. “You’re spot on there, Harry. Brilliant call.”  

Furthermore, this had to be the world’s longest, most detailed, most humiliating Howler, ever. Harry didn’t even want to _think_  of what Ginny must’ve paid the post owl service for it.  

Which reminded Harry most inconveniently of the continued existence of his newly risen girl-nemesis and thus he swiveled his achy head to stare desperately at Ginny, who smirked craftily in return—blandly, like a vanilla pudding. Slytherin-like. The _real_  Slytherin, Draco, both ignored and incensed over it, rose to his feet like a sodding shot, not twenty paces away, and whipped out his wand with a wide sweeping flourish.  

“Potter! I’m speaking to you!”

“Oh, shit! Harry!” Ron squealed, ever alert for bludgers of any sort or standard. “Starboard, mate— _incoming_!”  

He even blanched along with Harry, turning so pale his freckles stood out like great dark blotches across his normally fair skin.  

Seamus giggled. The fool. 

And scrambled hastily beneath the table, along with Dean, Nev and an assortment of other sapient elder years.  

…Maybe not a fool, after all. Harry sneered. Then sobered.

And then proceeded to freak. Like a Firstie—like a girl! A Hufflepuff girl!

“Oh-my-gods!”  

And Harry—personally—was like to fall the frick over, even where he sat—stiff, frozen in utter mortification, and quite honestly feeling also rather wholly sullen and quite put-upon. His person remained upright only because it was propped up by a queasy-looking Ron on the one side and a snorting-his-Irish, fun-loving-arse-off-but-still-fast-disappearing Seamus on the other.  

Harry sucked in a deep breath through his nose, the first one in quite a long period of elapsed time. Immediately, his thinking bits—yes, despite what Draco had to say about it, he had them—kicked in record time, tallying positives. Because there were some, yet.

Thank all the aboriginal spirits of the Outback Hermione was still deep in Australia, involved with the  _un_ Obliviation of her parents.  

Thank Salazar Headmaster Severus Snape was absent from the head table this morning because Harry couldn’t possibly even  _bear_  to think of  _his_  reaction.  

Thank Merlin himself dear old Dumbledore had gone off to his next great bloody adventure because just one single stray knowing twinkle would have sent Harry right over the fucking mental cliff.  

“Accio Firebolt!”  

Harry also sprang up, rising to his feet with all the zany energy of a jack-in-the-box hyped on both wizarding speed _and_ Muggle uppers. Ad caffeine, chocs and whatever else. It was just like Leviosa, but without the wand movement, really.  

“Bloody hell!”  Ron exclaimed, eying Draco warily as he pieced things together. “ _That’s_  your new boyfriend, Harry? Well, no wonder our girl Gin’s got the wind up!”

 Oh, Harry prayed fervently, thank all the bloody Founders Hogwarts castle still adores me!  

Because apparation was looking mighty tasty as a viable alternative, even if his trusty broom was on its way to him.  

Indeed, thank the whole bloody friggin’ universe he could perform practically any spell he wished within the demesnes of Hogwarts. Not that he was truly thinking cognitively at the moment; this leap of faith was more of an instinctive reaction he was experiencing, in sensory abundance. An overweening, overwhelming urge to remove himself from an untenable situation.  

Posthaste. By any means necessary. Fair or foul.  

“Accio Cloak!”  

Caught waiting, hesitating, nay, teetering on the very brink of social disaster—and at bay, pretty much, between the Howler, the Malfoy and the gawping sea of his fellow students and appalled profs—Harry stared about him, doe-eyed and feeling absolutely demented, and thought only of his impending escape. But the Howler wasn’t quite done with him, not just yet: 

MUM, the Howler waggled its devil’s tongue gleefully, whilst simultaneously smacking its ruby lips. MUM  _WILL_  BE HERE AT HOGWARTS SPOT ON NINE O’CLOCK SHARP TODAY, HARRY-BLEEDING-MOUTHY-POTTER, AND YOU’RE  **FOR IT**! IT’S  _YOUR_  FUNERAL, DIMBULB! BAH! 

“Oh, dear.” Ron moaned, shaking his messy morning locks in a doleful fashion. “It’s worse even than worse, Harry. You should go—don’t mind me, really. Just leave now—don’t wait!”  

SHE’S MEETING WITH HEADMASTER SNAPE, YOU BLABBERMOUTH! YOU FOOL OF AN UTTER ARSE! The Howler announced triumphantly. TO  SPEAK OF WEDDINGS! SCOTS WEDDINGS, HARRY! OVER THE ANVIL!

“…” Harry said. Ron nodded.  

“Worser. Definitely.”  

AND SHE’LL BE BRINGING ALONG WITH HER NOT ONLY OUR DEAREST AUNTIE MURIEL, TO HELP PLAN YOUR VERY RAPIDLY UPCOMING UPCOMING NUPTIALS, HARRY, BUT  _ALSO_  UNCLE ALOYIOUS AND UNCLE PERPLAEXUS’S WEDDING ALBUM. THEIR FOUR HUNDRED PAGE ALBUM! SHE WANTS TO CHAT WITH YOU BOTH, DARLINGS, MOTHER TO SON AND DEAR LITTLE SON-TO-BE—AND  _OH_!  **DON’T**  THINK I DON’T SEE YOU THERE, DRACO-STEALING-SKIVING-STINKING-MALFOY! YOU SWIPED MY FAKE BOYFRIEND RIGHT FROM UNDER MY VERY NOSE, YOU BLASTED TOSSER! I HATE  _YOU_ , TOO! 

“Hmm. What’s after the state of worse, Harry?” Ron asked casually, leaning back on the bench and cocking his chin curiously. “Worser? More worse? Just plain horrid? Because we’re there, now. We've arrived.”  

“Yes…” Harry breathed, bobbing his chin ever so gently, as he was rather afraid his head might fall off. “Yes, Ron, I’d say we have.”  

SHE WANTS TO SHOW YOU BOTH THE ALBUM—FOR DRESS ROBE IDEAS, HARRY! TUX OR TRADITIONAL ROBES!  ** _AAANNND_** —KNOW  _THIS_ , STINKERS!—SHE’S ALREADY CONTACTED MALFOY’S MOTHER, YOU ROTTEN-RUMPED ARSE-HUMPING ROTTERS! THE DATE’S BEEN SET—THE CATERER ARRANGED—YOU ONLY HAVE TO CHOOSE THE FLOWERS AND THE CAKE, YOU ABYSMALLY FILTHY SKIVING, SNEAKING SCOUNDRELS! HAH! 

“You d-don’t th-think?” Harry jittered from one leg to the other, undecided. “That…maybe, perhaps? If I—I mean—I could—maybe talk to your Mum—explain?“ 

GOOD LUCK WITH THAT! 

“Nope,” Ron mumbled. Instead of crumbling his toast, as Harry had, he simply crammed it in his mouth, speaking through it as he chewed away like a maniac. “This really _is_  bad, mate. This is disaster, pure and simple. It’s the worstest, really. So—you should go— _now_ —and, er, gods’ speed, alright? See you later….maybe. In a while, later. Not today—not tomorrow, either. I, erm…sincerely hope, that is.”  

“Thanks, mate.” Harry treated his old pal to a poisonous, sickly half-grin. More of a grimace, actually. He gulped.  “You’re all heart. Love you, too.”  

“Sure thing, Harry,” Ron blinked fast, a tad bit red-eyed all the sudden. “It was nice knowing you, mate. Do take care.”

“Hah! And, Haaa-rreeeee!” Ginny herself trilled this, long and loud, apparently because the Howler’s every gory detail in surround-sound wasn;t sufficient. And, er—to make absolutely certain even Hermione’s Aborigines didn’t miss a sodding detail, for sure and no doubt.  “I’d better be named your chief bridesmaid, you twit! I won’t ever, ever forgive either of your pratful arses if I’m not!” 

She also rose like a bobbing cork, popping up to her pretty feet upon that final utterance in much the same way Harry had, but with her ginger hair flaming and sparking well up and about her fair features, tendrils airbourne with demonic fury. She was, indeed, the very picture of a young nubile woman possibly scorned by her True Love…well, really _not_ , but likely some of the thicker ones in the audience of Harry’s fellow students might yet believe it.

In truth, Ginny had hardly been scorned; it was more she was brassed off at Harry over missing out on a chance to accompany him to Diagon, the day of his fateful WW interview.  _And_  a free lunch, after, courtesy Harry's vault— _and_  a once-in-a-lifetime chance to manage Harry’s come-out to her own personal satisfaction and no doubt exacting standards.  

“Oh, Gin!” Harry murmured despairingly, sending her a speaking Look. A piteous glance, that of a man sorely disappointed. “Did you have to? Did you?”  

For when they first called them ‘fag hags’, they must’ve meant this, the hag thing. Exactly this!  

“I mean, really!” Harry huffed and did _not_  stamp a duct-taped together trainer—did _not_ , though he sorely wished to. “Sodding un-be- _leeeve_ -able! Shut up, Gin—just shut your trap! I am no longer your friend!”  

“Hah!” she shrieked right back at him, completely unabashed by the combination of great green eyes and messy, sexy, just washed hair. “Hah!  **Hah** , Harry Potter! Ahahaha **hah**! Like _I_  care!  _That’s_  what you deserve for not trotting me along to your ever-so-not-a-bleeding-secret interview with  _WW_ —idiot git! Porridge-for-brains-Potter—nitwit, slack-jawed, gormless _freak_!  ** _I_**  could’ve handled that farce you created far better than you ever did! I  _could_! Ham-handed!”  

“POT-TER!”

“Eeep!”

Draco Malfoy, newly affianced, hove into sight, trailed by a host of darkly muttering minions.

“Loser!” Ginny taunted, skipping. “Missed your chance, didn’t you? Could’ve fended off Mum for you, but no! NO, you have to do it your way, Harry Potter—the wrong way, damn your attractive green eyes!”  

“Urk!” Harry swallowed bile, twisting away from the curiously gruesome sight of his old girlfriend. There was no succor to be gained from that quarter, clearly. 

“Um, Harry?” Ron jittered at his elbow, tugging at his sleeve where it trailed through the jam. “Oh, er—Harry?”  

Draco—dangerous demonic Draco—had Harry firmly in his line of sight. He’d not deviated an inch from his course. Indeed, as a matter of fact, nearly all of Slytherin House had grouped themselves behind the personage of Harry’s newly revealed partner-in-crime and were advancing upon Gryffindor table, slowly—menacingly.  

Hissing amongst themselves, like a proper lot of serpents should.  

“A WORD, POT-TER! I require a word!”  

“Meh!”  

Harry whimpered. Fortunately his broom and his cloak both chose that particular and specific— _and very highly magical_ —moment to swoop out of thin air and rush towards him at breakneck speed. Fortunately, too, his hands and fingers were set to automatic and they knew enough to reach out and grab at his treasures, clinging.  

“Oh, thank Merlin!” Harry whooped, joyful at last. “Praise the effing Founders! I can keep my skin, Ron!”  

“That’s it, Harry,” Ron nodded approvingly. He flapped a hand full of muffin. “You go, mate. Go on.”  

YOU’RE FOR IT, HARRY! MAKE NO DOUBT ABOUT THAT! DA-DA-DOOOOOOMED! 

The Howler was industrial strength, possibly foreign-made; there was simply no other explanation for its long-lasting power and amplitude. Harry raked his chin ‘round to face its perversely disgusting paper tongue for a final time, even as Draco loomed largely upon his event horizon.  

Ginny snickered. As did her closest mates, the little wankers. Harry made a mental note to recall them all later and hex them—better yet, he’d ask Draco to do it. Draco was whizbang with those ouchy ones that raised boils for forty-eight hours at a time.

“Potter.”  

MUM’S GOT YOUR BLOODY NUMBER, MR. DESIRABLE NUMBER ONE! GOOD LUCK IN HELL WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND-NAPPING THIEF OF A MALFOY, YOU PUSILLANIMOUS PUSSY! YOU’RE HISTORY! KISS YOUR SINGLE DAYS OF BACHELOR BLISS SO LONG AND GOODNIGHT! IT'S OVER, HARRY POTTER! AHA-HA-HAH! 

 _Pop!_  went the Howler, at long last.  _Whooooshhhhh_! 

It was quite the longest message Harry had ever received in Howler form in all his short, eventful life. He closed his eyes in blest relief when it finally dissipated into a smelly, stinky puff of scarlet-tinged smoke, belching.  

“A-hem. Nuptials." Draco took advantage of the utter lull in all conversation to speak up. However, he addressed Ginny, not Harry, which was a corker, really. Harry, startled, stopped his preparations for departure to listen. "Weddings, you say? Did you, by any chance, mention nuptials, Miss Weasley?" He pinned Ginny with a dire brow. " **My**  nuptials?”  

Harry had entertained hopes, it was true. He was practical, yes, but he was also a Gryffindor, by Hat and by choice. He always had hopes, no matter the circumstances. No matter the odds. It was his nature, by gum.

But the Howler was by no means the end of it. Harry's breakfast 'o' doom had not yet passed into recent memory. No. Decidedly not.  
  
The Great Hall, which normally contained any number of mildly rowdy, annoyingly loud teenagers and ‘tweenies, was deathly silent. As a tomb, silent. As an unmarked gravesite in the vast reaches of the Serengeti, silent.  Like that. Pins by the score could’ve merrily waltzed across the flagstones and be heard quite clear as a bell in outer, upper Siberia; every person present seemed to be collectively holding their lungs at the ready, stone still and unmoving, awaiting the remainder of the Harry Potter Show Du Jour™.  

Because Harry’s Howler aside, there was also Malfoy. Dangerous Draco.

“Oh-gods-almighty-get-me-outta-here!” Harry breathed, appalled by the angle of icy blond eyebrows alone. And the chin! “Oh-gods-oh-gods-oh-my-sodding-gods!”  In his babbling state, he missed Ginny’s reply—but it hardly mattered.

The damage was done. And done.

“HAR-RY POT-TER! You’re not thinking of leaving, are you? You wouldn't dream of it, would you?” How his Draco could both howl and purr, Harry would never know. The git was talented with his tongue, though. Also definitely.  

“Bad-bad-bad!” Harry chanted, hopping in place, broom in one hand, cloak in the other. "Ba-ba-baaad!" 

Malfoy had completely abandoned both the vicinity of his own table and his narrow-eyed questioning of a gleefully mumchance Ginny Weasley altogether. He'd gone and embarked upon a viciously slow and predatory stalk well into the fastnesses of Gryffindor table territory, his eyebrows beetled nastily, his grey eyes very narrow indeed. Gun-turret slit-narrow. Lo, he was almost upon Harry—and the fallout began: Hufflepuff scattered, squealing; Ravenclaw followed an orderly evacuation plan. But no one spoke so much as a syllable, other than Draco.  

Harry, out of oxygen from hopping, merely panted in place, red-faced.

 “Harry Potter,” his lover of months repeated, his sexy snarly voice (so perfect in bed, behind the safety of charmed curtains) dropping down another full octave, well into ‘impending doom’ level. “I wish to speak with you, Harry, my love, my sweet—in private. Now.”  

“Worse-worse-worse!” Harry achieved a perfect circle, what with the renewed hopping. “Much worse!” he gasped, bug-eyed in abject terror. The Gryffindors all cringed to man beneath the scant succour of the tablecloth; Harry cursed every one of them inwardly, 'cepting good old Ron, who was still present and crunching away, for leaving his flanks and rear completely unguarded at his time of need. So much for reliable back-up, then, he thought, sneering. 

Glancing up, his eyes met his lovers for the first time in the course of approximately an hour—or nearly all of the time allotted for breakfasting.

“Oh!” Harry gawped. “Oh, yes…”

Draco—his Draco—he, that was Harry’s, was still incredibly attractive even with the steam and the brimstone glowing deep in the backs of his eyeballs—and even when pacing toward Harry with the unmistakable light of Hell in his gaze. Harry spared a thought for how lucky he was to be shagging Draco even as he whipped his beloved precious hand-me-down cloak about himself finally and leapt nimbly upon his super new broomstick from a standing start.  

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, pretty much to no one in particular, struck by a terrible thought. “Fuckity!”  

No reply—no response.

“...Fuck?”  Harry repeated hopefully. “Fuck.”

Ron certainly wasn’t listening; he was chewing. The rest of them were all staring at Draco—and a good half of them were drooling over him, too—the sleazy, skeevy bastards!   

“Oh, shit,” Harry moaned to that same nonexistent listener. “ _Now_  what? Do I stay or go, now? And  _where_  do I go? Where  ** _do_** I go?!”  

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Right. Er…poor Harry.” Ron deigned to notice his friend again after swallowing. "Hmmm. Lessee." He shook his head and thoughtfully went on with buttering his second crumpet. “Right, yeah.”

“Yes, Ron?  _Yes_?”

“Er, look. You might want to try the Forest, mate. Mum’s not fond of the spiders, either, oddly enough; family thing, yeah? Hereditary, likely. And, um, we both know Malfoy doesn’t like it there, don’t we? Should be a safe enough place…for a bit. Well. A very little bit. Um—not for the long term or anything. Mind the forbidding things, now—”  

“Oh, shit—Forest! Freaking Forbidden Forest!”

Harry—what was visible of him—hesitated for just that one more single crucial second. His green eyes stuck fast to his best friend’s face like pleading glue, hopeful for any other sage advice Ron might feel inclined to give him.

“But! I don’t like the Forest, Ron!” he wailed. “Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit-I’m-so-dead-I-can’t-even-think-how-dead-I-am! RON! Help me!” 

Lucky for him, good old Ronniekins didn’t let him down. Well, he did, but it was sensibly and thoughtfully done, for a fork.

“Forest it is, Harry,” Ron assured him firmly, overriding Harry's desperate hitch-pitched gabble. “ _Really_. There’s nowhere else that’ll do. And you’ll likely need at least three days spent there,” he went on, calmly inhaling half his third crumpet on the first bite. It wasn’t his skin that was endangered, of course. “Give or take. Four, possibly. You know how Mum is. The _Prophet’s_  likely right outside the castle gates, too, I should think. That means Skeeter. Waiting, Harry. Hmm. Might want to plan a short vacay farther afield for after, actually; go a little longer away. Maybe somewhere Muggle? Come back, say…next Wednesday—earliest.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry squeaked, crestfallen but resigned. “Thanks for that. Forest it is, then.” 

It was brilliant Harry had made up his mind, finally. Armageddon approached.

“POTTER-I- _WILL_ -DESTROY-YOU!”  

Draco was nearly upon the last stand of Gryffindor Tower—that is to say, Harry and Ron--the flames of spitting fury issuing from his thinned lips and tight jaw emitting in an acid-blue visible wave.  It was a pretty effect, to be honest. Impressive. And he was…well, he was pretty as well, Harry's boyfriend, but he certainly wasn’t very happy with Harry at the moment—that was blindingly obvious—and he apparently intended to express that to one and to all and damn the blasted consequences. 

Draco, Harry concluded, would likely  _never_  require the services of a Howler to make his feelings known. He did quite well on his own, thanks ever so.  

“ ** _I_**  WILL WITHHOLD SHAGGING FOR YEARS UPON DECADES IF YOU DARE FLY YOUR SKINNY ARSE OUT THAT WINDOW, HARRY!” 

Harry sent his darling boy—his umpy-bumpkin-oodles—one last fond grin prior to his imminent departure, happily pondering their recent past, spent together. Very much together and wasn’t that just ducky? No one had been more surprised than he, really—well, maybe Ron had—but then it all added up to a tonne of good sense and sound reasoning, didn’t it? Or so Ginny had said to Harry, time after time. Muttered...grumbled. Bitched. Often. Ad nauseum.  

Harry groaned.

Friggin’ Ginny _and_  that bloody Witch Weekly editor, Sassafras Peebles, mucking with his carefully prepared speech about his rights (as a normal, law-abiding citizen) to the normal pursuit of happiness...and free love. With a Malfoy. So what if that Malfoy happened to be a little dicey in his moral footing? Who wasn't, these days?   
  
Harry’s face fell just as fast as it had risen, prior. If it weren’t for all the interfering females, his life would be just so much the more peaceful. Fact!  

“DON’T!” Draco hissed—or roared, depending upon one’s House affiliation. “ **DON’T**  YOU DARE LEAVE ME TO DEAL WITH MY MOTHER  **AND**  YOUR PRECIOUSS MISSSUSSS WEASSSSLEY, HARRY! DON’T YOU EVEN CONSSSSIDER IT! YOU ARE SSSSO FUCKING DEAD! I WILL KEEEL YOU MYSSSSELF!” 

…Or not.  

Harry gulped. Sent another nervous, uneasy grin his lover’s way, because really—he loved the arse like an utter fool; was mad for him, even though he was apparently to die at Draco’s hexing hands any second now. And he’d miss him just as madly, spending that enforced quiet time all by his lonesome in the Forbidden Forest.  Safely away from all…this.

“Harry,” Draco growled, coming every closer with every sedate, deliberate step. “Harry, I think we need to talk. Don’t you?”  

“Hmmm,” Ron blinked calmly at his pal, caught up in one last lustful gawp at the approaching Malfoy, a stupid grin of remembered reverie gracing his not very neatly shaven jowls. “Yeah, um—Harry? Uh, you might not want to delay much longer, mate. You know? Time’s a’wasting here. I’d, uh, have to say that you should go now—right now, while you still can. ‘Cause Malfoy’s not really smiling at you, Harry—those are his eye teeth he’s flashing, yeah? Chompers. Harry. Means something by that, he does. Likely he’ll eat you alive.”  

“Oh! Oh, yes—right!” 

Harry returned to his right mind with a start and an agile sideways jump away from the tippy bench seat. His heart bobbled; Draco was all of a mere three feet distant and rapidly incoming, wand leveled in a business-like fashion at Harry’s unguarded though currently invisible bits. Because of course Draco knew exactly the disposition and geographic locale of Harry’s bits.  

“Coeunt Harry’s boll—!”  Draco sneered, still hissing consonants that absolutely couldn't be hissed, no how, no way. But were.   
  
 _Coeeunt_ , Harry recalled, meant 'shrinking'. Draco's wand was aimed with remarkable veracity at Harry's most important personal space. 

“Eeep! Oh- **FUCK** -fuckity-eeek! Crikey!”  

With a mental ‘fuck _that_  for a lark!’ to the thought of flying out of one of the gaping wide open windows of the Great Hall—because such tricky maneuvering did actually require time and attention, neither a luxury he could afford at the moment—Harry disapparated, still astride his broom. Praising every stray sentient stone in Hogwarts castle all the while that he—and only he and of course Snape—could manage it. 

Draco, his beloved and only, his soulmate and his shag buddy—his avenging angel of death and despair—could  _not_. And though Mum Weasley could spell Point Me’s till she was blue in the gills, Harry was still ace at skiving. He’d grown up in small spaces, by Merlin—and he could make himself very undetectable indeed. Even Snape wasn’t going to be finding Harry any time soon—Harry was just that good. Could run solid rings about interfering, nuptials-planning parental units of any sort or battle power, and especially the ones who specialized in grabbing at a person’s naked earlobes and tugging!  

He loved Mum Weasley with all he had, but! There were limits!    

 ** _Pop!_**  went Harry, eagerly.  ** _Whooooshhhhh!_**  

* * *

“Hmm,” he looked about him several confused moments later, relishing the peace and quiet of the Forbidden Forest. Sure, there were dire wolves. Certainly, there were giant spiders, blood-sucking bats, unwelcoming Centaurian hermit-like seers and maybe even a stray and hopefully quite cowed Death Eater or two, still skulking about in hiding.  

Vampires, tigers and bears—oh my! 

“Huh. Nice place,” he remarked to himself, not meaning it at all, but still gratefully leaving go of his precious cloak and broom and collapsing on a nearby rock outcropping with a happy sigh. “Right, then. That’s better.”  

Moments ticked past, peacefully unclogged with Weasleys and Malfoys and loud boisterous people from the press. Harry blinked sleepily and vaguely regretted his toast. But not so much.  

“I’m hungry,” he mentioned to the poisonous creeping vine that came twining his way, prickly leaves shredding bark as it slithered. “Quite. Incendio!”  

He could scavenge, Harry decided, if push came to shove. And raid the shops of Hogsmeade late at night, if need be. He’d get by.  

“Not so bad, really,” he informed a nearby ancient oak, “for your average terrifying magical locale,” he mused to a curled-up Ferocious Fern, now quivering in fear by the remnants of its ashen fellows, newly Incendio’d as well. Harry tucked his hawthorn wand away in a business-like manner and rose, shrinking cloak and broom and stuffing both in his robes pockets. “It's pretty here, really. Quiet—restful. I never realized. Fancy that.”  

“Really,” he remarked to the bright eyes of the various wary predators peering through the underbrush at him as he strolled off, whistling merrily and twirling his trusty elder wand—kept up neatly his _other_  sleeve for just such occasions. “Not so bad at all.”

 


End file.
